From the Desk of Dantalion
by buffyaddict
Summary: This is a deathfic written in response to a deathficathon challenge on livejournal. It's, um, supposed to be funny. Dantalion, the Great Duke of Hell is having a little problem with the Winchester brothers, from his POV. Some violence and naughty words.


This is a deathfic i wrote for a deathficathon challenge over on live journal. It's, um, supposed to be funny. Big thanks to refur for beta-ing this.

Summary: Dantalion, the Great Duke of hell, is a rather chatty demon. He goes to earth on business. It seems those Winchester Boys are causing a bit of trouble for the Great Duke and his minions.

* * *

It's not all bedlam and bloodshed being a demon, you know. There's a lot of paperwork and deadlines involved, but the movies and books never show that bit, do they? And there's a bloody lot of paper-pushing when you're the Great Duke of Hell and have thirty-six legions of demons working for you.

Thirty-six legions. Wrap your mind around that one, will you? You have no idea how much overtime I have to approve. Plus, everyone knows humans are notoriously lazy. But demons? _Even worse._

Not all demons of course. Some of my best employees are second- and third-level demons—Chronozon, Chaos, Azazel, and Skylla, just to name a few. Take Sky. She's just been nominated employee of the century for the twelfth time. She's a keeper. And not bad on the eyes either, if you get my meaning.

As Great Duke I've got a lot on my plate. I've got to keep track of the various cults, test new demons like yourself, handle maintenance for the first six rings of hell—you get the picture. I also have to assign the different department heads their respective tasks. For instance, Chaos is head of Research and Development. Invented something called spam e-mail a few years back and the department's tripled in size. It's not always about killing and maiming, although that _is_ great fun—causing the stupid meat-suits mental pain and anguish is always good for a laugh. Not to mention wasting their server space.

Chronozon is in charge of Contracts and Negotiations. He handles crossroads bargains, soul trades, and brokers deals for the Big Boss. Mostly, he spends a lot of time on the phone with clients like Celine Dion and Britney Spears. If he takes on one more sodding boy band I'm going to have to call him into my office for a sit down.

Sky heads up Monitoring, which is a fancy way of saying she keeps tabs on humans we don't like. Although we don't really like any of that lot, there are a few we can stand—but there are more we downright loathe.

For example: those stupid gits who fancy themselves hunters. Slayers. Rogue Demon Hunters. Helpers of the Helpless. Killers of Things and Savers of People. Call them what you want. I like to call them great fucking wankers.

But there's one group of hunters I hate most of all.

The Winchester family.

I can't begin to tell you how many times they've thrown a silver spanner into the works. Azazel's been working on the Gifted Children Project for the past twenty-odd years and the Winchesters have been a thorn in his side for most of that time. And if there's a thorn in Azazel's eye, there's a thorn in mine.

And let me tell you my dear, it's time to pluck out that thorn.

And step on it. And grind it into pulp. And set it on fire. And then sprinkle the ashes...

Ahem. Well, you get the gist.

Actually, my task is already half done. Azazel made a deal with Johnny Winchester a few months ago. The old _sure, I'll save your son if you come along with me nice and quiet like_ gambit. Worked like a charm. He not only got Johnny's soul, but that pesky gun as well—Azazel got himself a nice fat bonus out of that one, I can tell you.

Now we've got John opening letters in the dead-letter office downstairs. You wouldn't believe the way he bitches about paper cuts. Stoic, my flaming ass. Some of the office girls are all atwitter that he's good-looking in a manly-man sort of way, but I just don't see it. He's human. Two legs, two arms, one mostly empty head. A lot of skin that tastes more or less like chicken. Where's the appeal in that, I ask you? They all look alike. Earth is nothing but one fucking Where's Waldo without the Waldo. And I hate that four-eyed freak.

But not as much as I hate Sam and Dean Winchester.

I can see now it's time to take matters into my own claws. It's been a while since I've had a holiday. Almost seventy years since I walked among the living. So this morning I picked out a stylish new meat-suit and dusted off the travel mug.

Come along. Off to work we go.

----

If you know the right human to take over, you can have a pretty good lark amongst the Homines sapientes. The few times I've mixed business with pleasure have worked out rather well. I don't like to brag, but perhaps you've heard of some of my past exploits—there was Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus, Gilles de Rais, Erzsebet Bathory, Albert Fish, and my personal favorite, Ed Gein. That boy could make a fine belt.

But I digress.

As you may have noticed, I'm currently in the body of one Mr. Nicholas Savoy, a physician in Boston. He's a skilled surgeon who saves lives in a large private hospital during the day. At night he enjoys cutting people up into teeny tiny bits and playing with their internal parts. He killed three people before I even arrived.

Like I said, there are a few humans we can stand.

This particular collaboration works well for me because I need to collect a few internal odds and ends for the Annual Spring Blood Rite. Kind of an office party thingy that's popular with the first ten legions or so—play your cards right and maybe you'll get an invite this year. In order to summon the band, we need a human kidney, heart, brain, uterus, lung, and an appendix. Further proof that humans are useless bags of skin and hair: the bloody buggers don't even know what the appendix is for, and yet _we're_ the ones in hell. I ask you, how fair is that?

I've collected a few of the items so far. Got the brain tucked nicely in the freezer along with a heart. I will admit, daft or not, humans did get it right with Tupperware. I've never had a freezer-burned heart yet.

Last week Dr. Savoy and I went looking for a lung. We found one (well, two, really) in a nice young woman named Emily. Seems this girl moved to Boston from a little town called Burkittsville last year. And wouldn't you know it, she knew Sam and Dean Winchester.

Quite the coincidence, don't you think?

Of course, like the little righteous moths they are, Sam and Dean flew right to my flame. They're in a disgusting motel a few miles from the good doctor. Let's leave the outfit at home and see what they're up to, shall we?

---

Come here. Watch out for the bloody salt, dammit!

See it? Right there, across the doorway. And the window. Don't touch it, you idiot!

It's an old practice, but it does work on ghosts and the occasional demon. Doesn't hurt me of course, but I don't need you shrieking like a car alarm, do I?

That's right. Now look through the window. Careful, now. Do you see them?

The unfathomably tall one is Sam, the shorter one is Dean. Sky tells me Sam is considered the emotional one. That means he cries like a tiny girl at the drop of a hat. And Dean is what's called hardcore. Which really means he has the emotional depth of a puddle and he's dumb as a rock.

No, I don't know why Sam's hair is that long. Maybe he wants to look like a girl as well. Go all undercover mode and such. I wouldn't put it past them. Bloody hunters, They're always full of tricks and chicanery.

Just listen to the moping, would you? Dear Boss Down Below, I don't believe this. If I hadn't seen this lot kill some of my friends with my own eyes, I'd swear someone's playing a practical joke on me.

---

_What do you think did it? Sam asks. His eyes are red, his voice hoarse. And why?_

_Dean sighs. He looks tired. I don't know. Maybe it's some kind of retribution for destroying the Vanr?_

_The police said there's no sign of anyone entering or leaving her apartment. And why take just one of her lungs?_

Because I'm not making a pair of bloody earrings, you poncy dolt.

_Did you see this? Dean points to a newspaper. This is the third killing with missing body parts in the area. _

_Come on, grab your gear. Let's check out her apartment._

Looks like it's your lucky day. We're going on a field trip. Know your enemy, as they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I would very much like to keep them both extremely close. Say, on the inside of my stomach as an after-dinner snack. But...I won't ruin Azazel's work. He wants Sam alive. I swear, one look of those yellow eyes and I just can't say no.

Sky even asked for a souvenir. She's got the body of a leviathan and six heads full of brains, yet she still thinks Sam and Dean are cute. I guess I could cut a lock or thirty of Sam's hair. Or snag that useless charm Dean wears around his neck.

But first things first. I have a lung to wrap in aluminium foil. Then off to Emily's to watch the Holy Boys in action.

What?

Oh, it's a joke. There was a program called the Hardy Boys a few decades ago. Based on a set of books, really. About two brothers who solved... oh, _never mind_.

---

Look at that, will you? Breaking and entering. If those buggers did things like this a bit more often I probably wouldn't hate them with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

There they go, bumbling around Emily's apartment as if they'll actually find a trace of anything useful.

"_Dean," Sam calls in a hushed voice, "I found something."_

The what now?

"_What?"_

"_Looks and smells like sulphur."_

Oops. My bad.

"_So some kind of demon was here?" Dean wonders._

"_I don't know. According to the forensic report, surgical tools were used. What kind of demon uses a scalpel?"_

A brilliant one, thank you very much.

"_One that's bodynapped someone, that's who."_

Oooh. Bodynapped. That's a good one. Write that down.

"_Take out the EMF and let's–"_

Yes, yes, I know they're still talking, but I really don't give a human's arse. _Bo-ring_. Bad Boss, I'm not about to sit around all day and listen to them twitter. We've got body parts to collect.

Watch how it's done.

Sam's all agog when I appear in my snazzy doctor suit in the center of Emily's apartment. (Good trick, by the by. Always handy in a pinch.) _"What–"_

The good doctor's hands latch around Sam's neck and give a nice little squeeze. Why don't you throw Dean into the nearest wall. He seems to like that. Nice one. Good distance, nice height. Impressive. Sam goes boneless and I let him fall to the ground. Then I cross the room to Dean and give him a nice hard kick to the head. I so enjoy kicking a man when he's down.

All righty then. Let's get to work, shall we?

---

I'm perched (quite gracefully I might add) on the edge of the tub when Sam awakes. His eyes do a cute little roll around and then he focuses on my face. I waggle my fingers cheerfully.

"Sammy," I grin. "I'd tell you it's nice to see you, but it's not."

Sam squints. He takes a shuddering breath and his teeth start to chatter. He looks a tad green around the gills, frankly. _"Who are–"_ he cuts off, looks around the tiny bathroom again. _"Where's Dean?"_ he blathers.

Oh yes, the brotherly love. Did I mention these two poofs love each other in a purely pure and brotherly way? Dedicated to each other, blah blah blahdy blah. Makes me want to vomit.

The giant hairball finally notices he's chattering like a monkey and takes a closer look at his predicament.

_Sniff_. It's times like this that I truly love my job. Watch and learn, my friend.

Sam's lying in a tub of ice like a fish waiting for market. And... he's minus a kidney. See those stitches? Those are nice and tight; no loose threads there. I'd love to take the other kidney as well...Sky has this delicious recipe for kidney pie. But no. Sam is part of Azazel's pet project. No sense pissing him off.

Yet.

Sam starts making some kind of jabbering noise when he feels the stitches and sees how the ice is just the tiniest bit pink. He's crying like a big baby and My Boss, it's revolting. From the way he's carrying on you'd think I took both kidneys after all.

And wouldn't you know it, the bathroom door bursts in like we're all trapped in a cheap B movie. Dean stands there, _how dare you_, and _don't you touch my brother_ and _look how hot I am_.

I tell him quite calmly and politely I'm just here for the kidney, thanks. Time to run along. People to see. Organs to get. But the wanker doesn't move and now I'm getting a wee bit testy. Between Sam's blubbering and Dean's posturing, I'm getting a bloody headache.

Dean's throwing punches and he's not bad (for a human) but I sidestep with ease. I grab hold of his arm and punch the other one into his chest with a nice squishy _thwick_. And then I'm holding his still beating heart in my hot little hand. Perfect! Sky asked for a little memento and this'll do nicely.

Dean falls to the ground in a bloody pile and Dear Boss Below Sam shrieks even louder. I hadn't thought that was even possible. I toss the wanker my cell phone and remind him to call 911 before he goes into shock.

I'm not completely unreasonable, you know.

And now it's off to the maternity ward because I still need me a uterus. Also, we'll make a quick stop at the hospital gift shop. I'd like to grab a nice gift bag and some tissue paper for this heart.

---

When we get back to the home office a few days later, Sky is thrilled. Her desk is decorated with all kinds of tiny hearts and kitties. Dean's heart looks nice with the others. She offers me a kitten but I'm not feeling very peckish, so I decline.

I head to my office and drop into my chair, hooves up on my desk. All in all, not a bad little trip.

Two Winchesters down, one to go.

Death is good.

--end--


End file.
